in this twilight our choices seal our fate
by openended
Summary: On the rise and fall of partnership.


_the children prayed, the preacher preached_

Olivia stands at the edge of the driveway, just inside the crime scene tape. A bike on its side, an upturned bucket of chalk. A red balloon dancing in the wind, its string caught in the bushes. She tries not to look down, tries not to see the smiling sun and the stick figure family and the hopscotch court. She's been doing this for years, doesn't mean it isn't hard.

Elliot lifts the tape and ducks underneath. He looks upward at the gathering clouds, and then behind at the gathering crowd. He exhales sharply, a puff of icy air, and sticks his hands deep in his pockets. "Ready to talk to the parents?"

Truth is, she's never ready for this conversation, the one where the kid might still be _alive_ and everyone is panicked and frantic, so worried that they no longer understand reality, unable to sit still for fear that something might _happen_ in the moment they aren't moving. The other conversation, the one where the kid is definitely _dead_, is worse – every time she thinks she's become immune to the grief of others, a parent she doesn't expect to crack has to leave the room and she quietly clenches her fist, digging her fingernails into her palm – but the certainty makes her job a lot easier. "Yeah."

The wind picks up and blows the balloon loose, carrying it up toward the sky. She turns, pausing before Elliot knocks on the door, and watches it float out of sight.

When they leave, an hour later without anything useful, raindrops chase them down the sidewalk.

* * *

They're fucking regularly now. He's not supposed to believe in divorce, but there are signed papers saying he does, and he's working it out inside of her. It's a terrible plan on multiple levels, and if she weren't so surrounded by a cloud of ecstasy as she moves on top of him, she'd analyze them. If he weren't such an expert at making her tremble and melt under his touch, she might _care_.

{_you have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes_}

Her breath catches in her throat and the universe explodes behind her eyes as she comes.

* * *

"What happened to you?" The answer's fairly obvious, so bloodied and scraped are his knuckles.

He grits his teeth as the nurse wraps gauze over his hands. "Punched a wall."

"Yeah?" She wonders how bad the wall looks.

He purposely locks eye contact. "Wall isn't going to file assault charges."

He has a point, but they put up a heavy bag in the crib three months ago, mostly for him and the sake of their lockers. She looks down at the scuff marks on the floor.

* * *

All their cases are hell, but this one's worse. The water pounds on her shoulders, steam nearly suffocating. She leans her forehead against the wall and takes a deep breath, the cool tile causing her to shiver despite the near-scalding water. She closes her eyes and sees two dead bodies, still young enough to mail lists to Santa, and flashes her eyes open again, blinks out the water.

He has his own key now, but they're emphatically _not_ living together and she isn't bothering to train out years of showering with the door open. Instead, she hears her apartment door open, keys clatter in the bowl, her serenity broken.

He knocks on the door frame; he's brought pizza and beer. She washes the conditioner from her hair and pushes the limits of her hot water and his worry.

* * *

_Blessed are the peacemakers_ –

Olivia presses her palms into her eyes so hard she sees stars. She stands up, blinking as her vision comes back, and blasts into the interrogation room without so much as a pause to consider knocking. "Detective," the icicles in her voice drop the temperature of the room by ten degrees.

Elliot stops, the perp gasping for air and struggling to find his footing as he's pressed against the cage mesh of the window. "Something you need, Detective Benson?" He doesn't break eye contact to look at her.

"You, outside."

His eye twitches, but the order isn't from her (it's from Cragen, and it's _don't kill the guy_) and he lets the perp down, slowly, and shoves him back into the chair.

She doesn't move as Elliot brushes past her on his way to be scolded. "Hang tight," she says to the perp.

– _for they will be known as the Children of God_.

There's thunder behind her words and for the first time since he was hauled in, he's actually scared.

* * *

He's in crisis mode, spiraling downward out of control. Everything spins too fast; the world moves when he isn't looking, but he has to sleep some time. He sees his kids some days, has to remind himself to breathe.

(_you aren't why I left_, he wants to tell them. _I'm why I left_. He left; that's all they see.

_o children, forgive us now for what we've done_)

He clutches and grasps at anything to keep his head above water. Punches lockers, throws perps, fucks her up against the wall. His fingers leave purple bruises on her thighs.

(her nails leave reddened scratches on his back –

she's spiraling too)

* * *

His footsteps crunch across the frozen grass, his eyes so focused on the ground he nearly walks into a tree. Helicopters circle overhead, spotlights cutting blinding swaths across his vision. They're doing this far too often.

Her voice shouts from the other side of the pond, her words muffled by the wind and distance and choppers. But he knows that tone, knows that there's no rush in running through the dead branches and stumbling through fallen leaves.

He stands behind her, closer than he should, while the ME carefully extracts the body from the icy ground. "Breathe," he whispers in her ear and settles his hand on her hip, grounding her.

His hand is warm, even through gloves and a coat, and she nods. "I'm trying."

* * *

She's never scared of Elliot, not even in his worst moments. It's stupid – he should _terrify_ her – but she stands there with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall while he rages against the universe. "Are you done?" She has to ask; he hasn't broken anything yet and that's usually where this leads.

He punches the bag once, twice, feeling the anger pour out of him –

three, four, _let no man bring me harm_, five, six

– and loses track, stops counting, imagines his fist ripping through the bag, breaking the chain so it all crashes down around him (_I bear the marks of the Lord). _ "Yes," he snarls, breathless.

* * *

She rolls over and runs into his side; he's staring at the shadows on her ceiling, following the glare of headlights through her windows. She blinks slowly, still mostly asleep, and settles her head on his chest. He slips his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

She sighs and lets her eyes fall shut again. An hour until the alarm goes off, two until they have to be at work. She feels him press a kiss to her head and then she drifts off.

_{we don't cry for the gods that die by our hands}_

He hasn't prayed in a while, can't remember the last time he set foot in a church. So broken is his faith in humanity that he's terrified of sitting in a pew – if nothing happens, if no one answers, he will have lost everything. As long as he doesn't test it, his faith in God remains strong.

She settles against him, asleep again, and he brushes his thumb across her shoulder. He's angry, so angry that his rage has formed a ball and settled at the base of his spine. But not with her.

Sometimes he worries that his fury falls on her anyway.

_{we throw stones if our gods take a stand}_

* * *

She feels herself falling, but not toward him. Just, falling.

They have three dead kids and twelve dead-end leads.

Sheer gravity holds them together.

* * *

Snow whirls angrily outside, but her skin is sticky with sweat where he touches her. She gasps, arching her back as his hands and lips skim down her body.

His hands map coordinates to distant worlds across her flat stomach and over the curve of her hips (_no wealth no land no silver no gold_), his lips against her thighs whisper nonsense words full of meaning they'll never speak aloud as he pushes her legs apart.

"Elliot," his name falls from her lips like a sacrament.

He smiles and takes his time, teasing her until she's nearly sobbing with desperation for release. Her fingers tangle in the sheets, searching for an anchor, and he gives in (_nothing satisfies me but your soul_).

She comes, and breaks around him.

* * *

Kid number five disappears and she wants to crawl under her desk. They've been through this before, through the panic and the running and the chaos, combed over driveways and yards on their knees with a magnifying glass, consoled worried parents and put up walls against parents who just yell.

She bows her head and takes a deep breath, running her hands through her hair. Organized chaos swirls around her as the room erupts into action, they sadly have this routine down, but doesn't quite touch her.

"You okay?" He asks. He's on hold and the music's awful; he holds the receiver a few inches away from his ear.

She looks up, his voice reminding her that she has a role to play, work to do. She stands up and shrugs on her coat; Munch is already downstairs, warming up the car. They drew the short straws.

Someone finally picks up the phone and he turns his attention elsewhere, but accepts the answer in her silence. As she walks past his desk, he brushes his fingers against hers.

* * *

_I have recognized that the universe is to be dissolved, both the things of earth and those of heaven._

* * *

The neighbors call the cops, claiming concerns about the noise across the hall. Olivia glares at them peeking out of their own apartment when she opens the door for the uniforms. They quickly shut the door and she hears the locks turn.

They flash badges and assure the officers that it's nothing, downplay the whole thing and it's resolved in ten minutes, will be erased in the morning.

She turns away from him and rights her coffee table, kneels on the carpet to pick up the fallen coasters and pens.

"Liv," he starts.

_{When I wounded you, you were joined to me}_

"Can you get me a towel?" She sets the now-empty glass back on the table.

He nods and brings her two; the glass was mostly full. He turns to leave – this night was never going to end well – and is at the door with his jacket halfway on before she calls his name.

"Stay," she says, still on her knees. If he wants to leave, she isn't going to beg. But he doesn't have to go. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs and hangs his jacket up again. "Not the worst one of us has ever done."

* * *

He calls her, two in the morning, wholly unsurprised she answers on the first ring. Sounds of the television lower – a _M*A*S*H_ marathon, white noise –and he can picture her on the couch, afghan around her shoulders, feet tucked underneath her.

"Elliot?"

He realizes he hasn't actually said anything, doesn't even know why he called. "Yeah, sorry," he scrubs a hand over his face; exhaustion doesn't always manifest itself in sleep. "Nevermind, I'll talk to you tomorrow." He pauses out of instinct, giving her a chance to respond before he disconnects.

She must be able to hear something in his voice that even he doesn't know is there because, "We'll catch him." She actually believes it. "Get some sleep, Elliot."

Silence, and then an automated voice telling him to hang up.

* * *

Tensions smash all known records when a sixth body appears. The ME confirms, chronologically, the body's really number two but that doesn't make the final count drop. The whole city's out for blood and they're all coming and going by the back entrance these days, avoiding the press mob out front.

Their raised voices turn into a screaming match, Elliot wanting to check teachers again but Olivia focusing on a rec center, and Cragen calls them into his office before someone starts throwing things.

She clenches her fists, digging her nails into her palms so hard she'll have crescent marks for days, and tries to calm her breathing enough that it isn't blindingly obvious how close to the edge she is. He clenches his jaw, doesn't care who knows.

"Go home," Cragen says, "both of you. That's an order. We'll call you if anything breaks." He opens the door and looks at them expectantly.

* * *

They're barely inside Elliot's apartment when he turns and pushes her up against the wall as the door clicks shut. Half a second, time enough for her to shove him back and tell him to go to hell, and then he kisses her, hard.

The light switch digs into her back but she doesn't care, just wants their clothes _off_, to feel nothing but skin. She pushes his coat off his shoulders, toes out of her shoes while he works the button on her pants. This is _not_ what Cragen meant when he ordered them home, but it's the best they can do.

He gets her down to her bra and panties and then catches her wrists as her hands tease at the elastic of his boxers. He pins them over her head against the wall with one hand. She struggles against his strength for a moment, testing his limits; he has no delusions that she wouldn't kick her way out of this if she wanted to. He stills, centimeters away from her body, waiting for her to look at him.

She's breathing hard again and finally forces her eyes to meet his. She knows that look, but she's never seen it turned on her before. He's barely holding it together and if one more thing flies out of his control, he's going to crack. He usually looks at perps this way, right before he slams them into the window cage. She nods, giving him control of the situation.

He steps closer, they might as well be touching, and squeezes her wrists tighter as her eyes close. Her pulse pounds against his fingers. His trails his free hand down her sides, feels the muscles of her stomach tighten, and finally settles between them, fingers just resting above her panties.

"All you gotta do is say stop," he whispers, before he forgets his own strength.

She opens her eyes, as dark and fragmented as his own. It never occurred to him that she might need the same thing.

"Elliot." She almost sounds annoyed; of course she trusts him to stop. "Fuck me."

That's all he needs.

* * *

He watches her beat the crap out of the bag. She's taped her hands and pulled her hair back, stripped down to her tank top and stashed her shoes under a bed. She pauses, spins on one foot and slams the other into the center of the bag, barely getting out of the way when it swings back toward her. Sometimes he forgets that she went through the same academy training he did, had to pass the same physical examinations. Sometimes he forgets that she's a single woman living alone in New York City.

Despite the tape, her knuckles bruise.

_Vengeance is mine; I will repay._

Later that night, he'll find her huddled in the shower, knees drawn to her chest.

None of them are particularly stable anymore.

* * *

There's a break, finally.

Five days without seeing her own bed and Olivia makes the connection between the kids. She's jittery from all the coffee but the breakfast Elliot shoves in front of her helps calm her down. They head to the park – _scope it out, canvas only,_ Cragen reminds them, _we don't have enough to charge anyone with anything_ – and Elliot drives while she finishes her bagel, watching the snow-covered city pass by.

"You okay?" He says, slowing to a red light.

"Yeah, just tired," she says, thinking he's talking about how she's been quiet the whole ride.

The light turns. "No, I mean about that night." She's barely left the precinct since the night against the wall.

She looks over at him and smiles. "I'm fine, El." It's a lie; she's scared.

But not of him.

He wasn't the only one who left bruises.

* * *

_For you provoked the one who made you, by sacrificing to demons and not to God._

They're too late.

* * *

He takes a deep breath, decides to be an adult about this, and walks into the church. It's a Wednesday afternoon and his footsteps echo down the stone aisle to a pew in the front. He kneels, crosses himself again, and takes a seat.

_(when the fires are consuming you)_

He bows his head, whispers and thinks words he's known since he was a child, words that are such a part of him sometimes he can no longer distinguish the prayers from himself. It's been too long and the words pour out of him unbidden and uncontrolled.

He feels her as soon as she steps inside, her presence presses on the back of his neck.

_(and your sacred stars won't be guiding you)_

When he leaves the confessional, she's sitting exactly where he was. He nudges her knee with his until she scoots over, giving him enough room to sit. She plays with the cuffs of her coat and sweater, tugging them further over her hands; she's never known what to do with her hands in church, never known what to do with herself in church.

He reaches over, covers her hand. She turns her palm over and he laces their fingers together. He squeezes gently and she settles.

_(i've got blood on my name)_

Her internal clock is impeccable. She's giving herself five minutes to just sit here next to him, five minutes to breathe, five minutes to not think about anything, and then they'll go back to work.

* * *

A red balloon bobs over the hedges and Olivia trusts her gut. They're out of clues, out of leads, and if someone in this unit doesn't trust their gut soon, their city's going to fall into irretrievable psychotic panic. NYPD's in enough shit from this case as it is, they need to close it last week.

She radios to Elliot, gives him as much detail as she can, and ignores his demand that she wait for backup. The frigid air burns her throat and her heart starts to pound as she takes off, following the balloon as it travels along the path above her.

She recognizes the pink coat of the missing girl and runs faster, seeing Fin and Elliot close in on her position. She tackles the man before he has a chance to run, slams him into the icy sidewalk, skinning her knee through her pants. She tightens the cuffs so they cut into the perp's skin, is vaguely aware that Fin's got the girl.

"You're under arrest," she starts, and the rest catches in her throat, half a sob of relief, half a cry of victory.

* * *

They haven't fucked in years, for the sake of their partnership.

He shows up at her apartment, three in the morning. He hasn't been at work in two weeks and words are forming on his tongue that he doesn't think he can say to her, doesn't think he can let anyone else say to her.

She blinks at him in the hallway, a haze of sleepy confusion slowly giving way to cold understanding. She steps aside in silence.

The universe hangs still between them, standing there in her living room with only a lamp to illuminate their way. Eternity passes in a second.

And then everything crashes, space disappears and lips connect, kisses only broken to tug clothing over their heads. Hands roam over muscles, finger glide across angles and bone, remembering curves and feel and skin. His lips trail to her neck and she gasps, grabs his hand, leads him stumbling to her bedroom.

A spring breeze blows through the window as they collapse on her bed, and the rest of their clothes are tossed aside. She braces herself and rolls, settling on top of him. His body is warm against hers and she holds there for a moment, memorizing the feel of his hands on her hips roaming upward to her shoulders and over to her breasts.

He reaches up, curls his hand around her neck, and gently pulls her down for a kiss. He commits her entire body to memory, the way she tastes, feels, smells, sounds. Her skin is soft against his fingers; he doesn't want to leave bruises tonight. This is something beyond desperation, beyond love, beyond trust. It's always been clinging to a life raft at the edge of a waterfall.

_time and mercy is out of reach_

He's gone in the morning.

She never sees him again.


End file.
